"wasps" poems
Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
Toast to stolen prayers with rarer player’s hands;
Soft in defiant laughter,
when drinking their wine from the bowels of brines
Sing along the Ballads of Heritage with Melodies of Exception;
Boast, not a breathe,
though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air(s) of land—
A settlement of Rapture and Resurrection, arid, amid dirt and sand
and King and thy Kingdom sprout flowering tomb, and rosebud temple reach to the sky during the showers of spring
Devours the crescent Moon
in big pink petals of bloom;
A garden so fertile
it could look pretty in wartime—
with Gardeners of Courage and Laborers of Excellence;
(Lapse, not into digressions of Being and Essence
but hands in the soil and planting the actions of kingdom come,
patient building of Spring Reign sure
as the flame, the architect of rising Sun is
(Daughters and Sons of kingdom came,
the soldier in a land been conquered and named; abandoned
for the greenness of hope.
)May it never come, Be All The Same; (
be gentle, though whispering wind)
Seeds of Nextyear and the spores of Awhile,
carried by the Wasps and the Clouds
To the Gentlemen of Excellence and Ladies of Courage,
illuminated, eyes from the flora of stars faraway forest floor of foreign
fears,
as the hungry Owls of Time prepare a final feast—
Consume the years between Here and Now;
Watching from blank perch, among
the Trees of Afterall; a place beyond expectance.
Sing the branches of experience, to wake
in Siren’s cipher; inelegant forms
of waking,
ugly sleep on rocks of seabed; once was aboard a marooned skyline—
Those Who Are Will Be
again, again a serf in a wave of Time’s refraction. Neverending neverbeginning;
Those Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
on the Day That Is, arrays of seers sayers doers displayers
optimists and pessimists, toast to them
and their rarer player’s hands,
Boast they, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost
to fairer wearer’s air and land;
Laugh and howl and dine, they drink their wine
from disemboweled gourds
of their own divine—
Warped, in jowls of hungry fix,
no feast they fear, for they prey to the Owls of Time.
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
Genetic engineering’s here to stay
Possibilities are endless, scientists say:
Men mixed with anything we can find:
Oak trees, wasps, ants and elephants combined.
Satanic horror armies sweep their enemies away
And Frankenstein’s monster’s little but child’s play
Compared with these.
Yet with Good intent,
And wisdom heaven sent,
Utopia or Paradise could be on its way:
Bumper bug-free harvests every day,
Giant fruit and docile, friendly beasts.
Food for all, and endless feasts.
All manner of
Good
Or Evil
Is within
Our grasp.
It’s down to us.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 5:45 AM UTC
Hailstorms with big winds, trees writhing in breezes
Coyotes howling in moonlight, dogs when they sneezes
Alloys and carved toys, stone gargoyles with wings
These are a few of my favorite things.
Skunk smells carried gently on nocturnal breezes
Sly double entendres and tickley teases
Beautiful salmon colored sunsets that make my jaw drop
Smell of pine 'n cedar in my sauna and wood shop!
Dolphins and doggies and toddlers and mooses
Saunas and cold plunges and honking V-flying gooses
Small mutts and storytellers and Pixar cartoons
Crazy call of the Maine dark of night loons
These are some of my nurturing tunes!
Volcanoes with lava and magma all oozing
Cross country skiing just gliding and cruising
Receiving massages unwinding and unbruising
I love my collections of adhesives and strings
These are a few of my favorite things!
So when the wasps sting
When the bored people whine
Wen I'm feeling dispirited and sad
I just think of a few of my favorite things
And I don't feel…so…bad!
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 8:26 PM UTC
Metal wasps do sting,
Swarming over the many,
Allergic death,
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
I'd heard about problems with police
hard to hear harder to believe
personally I never had a problem
oh a few well deserved speeding tickets
probably cut a break no definitely
I drove very fast especially in the turns
roll-the-tires fast in the turns
that was me
and the more I heard the faster I turned
as a young kid I applied and was accepted
to six colleges six for six piece of cake
why the stress my SAT score equated
to an I.Q. of 1 above plant life
accepted open arms those WASPs loved me
graduate school one for one
best in the country
bar none MBA with honors that was easy
they called it the golden passport yes
passports are even faster
I never had problems
with band-aids
the bank
the insurance company
the healthcare system
never turned down
for a credit card car loan
life insurance policy
or request for a specialist
experience is the best teacher
and the more I learned
the less I wanted to know
and the faster I turned
then I learned
about certain specifics
certain policies
with regard to traffic stops
bank loans rental property
heath care voting rights marriage
read the color purple
and then that invaluable government
syphilis experiment
that would have been inconceivable
even to doctor mengele
that the star spangled banner
has more than one stanza?
really there were four stanzas?
MY country ‘tis of ME
and it was making me feel *****
learned that no one
voluntarily held that flag up
that hellish night
o’er the ramparts WE watched
as slave and freedmen
were ordered
to their near certain death
with the threat of absolute
certain death
then I watched a cop
shoot a kid in the back
in cold blood
near a merry-go-round
on a playground
in baltimore maryland
I liked baltimore
fast very fast he emptied the 10 round clip
of a semi-automatic 9mm Glock 27
into THAT kid's back no hesitation ******
baltimore baltimore baltimore baltimore
I hit the brakes hard
on those fast decades and decades
generations generations generations
of turning
I slowed down way way way down
stopped
took a deep deep deeper breath
then did what I always did and do best
I turned turned turned I turned around
and as I turned I woke
to kneel
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 11:05 AM UTC
Ears pressed cool against
glass tables and vinyl flooring
words score high drained slowly
slow like wasps caught in guttered draining
not like velvet names etched in casing, but weathered like bricked and beaten graffiti –
Waning like wax always melting
Tools: spelling and grammar – uncheck
Don’t fret too many gerunds grounding air suffocating hearing between the lines that past lower truths out straight in dirt and stinky face: eyes drawn with pensive staring
lines drawn global remains of words unused: boycott form because it isn’t daring.
Adopt sonar because it traces the smokestack between eaves drop
and scrap metal hearing like thorns prickled cut by cleaver.
Clink, clink, clank.
Unlatch cellar doors of images fixed in meaning: glances slanted
heads poked out behind legs enchanting ink under eyelids.
Clank, click, click.
Wishing: Sunday morning came to rest and the cat perched rest without the windowsill and the space between my legs lost meaning.
Forgetting: Painted houses haunting furniture misplaced, training lessons in memory fading.
Dreaming: Sounds dipped in vegetable oil, Van Morrison in teething states caring.
Still lost without my last breathe wondering…
Mar 2, 2011
Mar 2, 2011 at 1:31 PM UTC
My petals were withering,
The butterflies turned into wasps.
An oppressive silence-
Weighing down on my conscience
And the fingertips - used to drawing sunrises
-compelled to write eulogies instead.
Of Chapped lips and vacant eyes.
And how the autumn had caught up to us.
And I remembered,
With an aching guilt-
How I had not even played in the rain,
Not much, not at all.
My words had rusted,
My voice- cracked, and unfamiliar
Even to my own ears.
The summer long poems that I wrote in love
Were set ablaze,
To help me survive a winter
without you.
Oh, when I said our love would keep us warm
This is not exactly how i had it planned.
And you did not get to read even a word.
One always thinks they have time.
But we did not.
Not then, and definitely not now.
As a child, I grew up wanting a lot from myself
-even the world, if I were to be honest.
Somewhere along the line,
All I wanted was for this all to not hurt.
And somehow the polar opposites are more alike
Than I'd have thought.
'Cause you see, people who want a bit of everything
Are very close to wanting nothing in particular, not much.
And I wish I had learnt to differentiate
Of when to sharpen my sword and when to use my pen
Cause now I'm down to my last petal
And all you have is a blue splotch on your shirt.
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 8:47 AM UTC
Bob and weave,
keep your tongue
out your teeth,
keep two fists up at all times,
don't let your hands drop
below your hipline,
that's how you get cleaned,
that's how you wind up
with a head full of bees,
move your feet,
off the heels
jump on the combs,
keep your toes wide,
and once you feel that
supreme blow
to the temple
give yourself a lil tap
wasps come to **** the bees
when the queen
is incapacitated.
Feb 10, 2012
Feb 10, 2012 at 7:57 PM UTC
her happiness is everything
her pathos; be kind with cruelty
blood and tears, a royal jelly
merciless kisses like blazing pyres
she cries through a night prayer
my push pin princess;
a crimson petal
nerves edge;
jutting ******* seeking cleavers kiss
to serve
to serve
to serve
smiling for a relish of wasps
she knows she is loved
a loved red faced surprise
**** mouth, red chirping sparrow
wax teeth melting
succubus, **** flower
gratefully crushed under foot
toes like musical notes
little pearl ruins
grave stones
whipped cream butter cookie in chains
stipule corridor
**** plume
serrations gush, a singing Dahlia
ripped rose, thorned and curt
plush flames
her skull a throat
her liturgy
weeping, licking gods bulging colossus
wakes her inside
giving her religion
sacrificed on a crucifix of *****
**** of heaven
a burning church possessed
drooling supplications
lustrous saliva web drapes trembling downward thighs
a glutinous chandelier
melts like silk around ankles
crystal silt on scorched heels
to serve
to serve
to serve
her happiness is everything
her pathos; be kind with cruelty
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 11:47 AM UTC
There, she lies on the altar
Almost held the sun she—
almost in her hands
Opened up, a rose-bud chaste
petal by petal by blood, with
a sting, so sweet and sweet, as
sunset reborn a bee; she was
gold and silver and black at once.
Almost held the sun she—
and no wax wings used
Oh, Icarus, love you did a wild sky,
— yourself a light-licked doom
as your father cried,
Your father cried for you.
A veil as simple sour starlight she wore
as wings of wasps as beetles she giggled
Icarus, flew that you
—and with tongue-tied elation too
Icarus,
she rambled on for hours long.
A letter she held in spring kissed hands
—I will wed you to the sun, her father had sworn.
The sun—and a sun he was,
child of the sea, some sword in honey
dipped; now her awaiting.
And blushed she did herself a dawn
The altar, on the altar.
Almost held the sun she—
Swallowed a mayhem for the father's sin.
Icarus, tell me of the plummet.
Tell me of the greens you saw,
of blues, of whites, of the whirling world—
Men go around around her
their soles all ready
to crush lost skulls an empty moor.
Twirling,
the dust, like may have her hair
before the wedding day
Strands and strands, gently styled—
Spears, swords, rubbed to mirrors,
to lakes lifeless
Armors and ships laden with life, with
sails, the fluttering doves;
As the winds dance once more—
as harbors vacated, as waves torn apart for the horde, as move they on— on too the sun— as
She still lies.
Icarus, Icarus, was it the ocean
that cupped its palms, or did the soil cave in
as down into dark's slick throat you slid?
Surely, was soft, the sea's well-loved mouth,
Surely soft or true
She lies on the altar
a trinket glossy on a hoof, a ****** in the bell,
how does one say—
the valley of lilies, she grew it inside.
Spilled out on the stones, they are fed
to the flies.
Almost held the sun she—
Icarus, must you know
You did not sleep a wretched silence
within the womb of war.
No crescent blades you drank down a leaking throat—
She lies on the altar, vanquished for moon
— for metal upon bone
for blood, for blood, for blood.
A father’s green promise—
Seasoned to rust before the king
Icarus, on the altar she lies—
a ripened land far, far away lures her king
to another rosy worship.
Icarus, Icarus,
on the altar
Aug 3, 2021
Aug 3, 2021 at 7:45 AM UTC
Goodbye wasps
Goodbye bees
Goodbye pollen from the trees
Goodbye midges
Goodbye flies
Goodbye scorching cloudless skies
Goodbye seagulls
Goodbye ants
Goodbye sunbathers in tiny pants
Goodbye sunburn
Goodbye oiled skin
Goodbye iced drinks laced with gin
Goodbye tourists
Goodbye throngs
Goodbye men wearing sarongs
Goodbye hosepipe
Goodbye lawn mower
Welcome to the noisy leaf blower
Hello Autumn
Hello cool bright day
Hello rolling around in the hay
Hello harvest
Hello fruits
Hello hiking in hiking boots
Hello warm colours
Hello warm hearts
Good riddance Summer
Autumn starts
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
The gardener*
This is my garden; my apple tree
has over-reached itself. The branches,
weighed down with fruit, threaten to break.
If I had read the signs, thinned out when it was time,
the crop would be less heavy, the fruit less small.
And what there is, is damaged. If it’s not birds
it’s caterpillar, wasp, or earwig.
It will all be rotten soon. I don’t know why I bother.*
The blackbird*
This is my garden; this tree I sat in
and proclaimed my own when it was full of blossom
with war-cry love-call song.
Then mating, nesting, bringing up the brood.
The days were scarcely long enough, but that
was long ago. My children gone,
there’s time now for myself, time for a treat.
My yellow chisel bill breaks in the flesh
of these fine apples. Delicious. This is the life.*
The wasps*
This is our garden – insects do not have time
for individuality. We built the colony, us lads,
chewed wood to make our paper nest, and now
we work to feed the grubs.
“Lads”, that is, using the word loosely – for us
gender is not important; that’s for the queen,
and, as it may be, the ones who service her,
none of our business.
But we need food too,
and if sustenance gives pleasure,
so much the better. When we find a fruit
where blackbird’s chisel bill has broken in,
we eat our way inside, till only skin and core
encase our private eating/drinking den.
So what if it’s fermenting? If we get tiddly,
and roll about, and buzz a drunken hum,
then who’s to care? And if they do, we’ll sting ’em*.
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
Cicadas whine metallically
In trees along the sweltered streets;
Wasps and hornets arc angrily
Enough to cause me fear.
Late summer’s not my favorite time of year.
Flowers nearly done;
The tulips, irises, and poppies
Long since seeded out;
They’ve had their fun.
Bedraggled day lilies remain,
This is the beginning of the mums.
Bees seek latent nectars
Or tap into their golden stores
To supplement their bumbling runs.
Lawns foist a burnt but stubborn edge
While only thistles still refuse
To bow to August's incessant heat;
Their spikes sprout poisonous defiance.
The dog’s left yellowed pools of dying grass;
I admit the neighbors’ lawns surpass.
I suppose the time to gather
Drying excrement’s returned, alas....
Keeping up appearances is hard at summer's end.
Ennui of season full and just past ripe
Leaves tired old men like me
A chiding cause to gripe.
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
Jim’s younger sister
Followed you everywhere
and stood watching
as you rode the old car
around the field
or whizzed around
on their motorbike
to the cheers and shouts
from the fence
Monica why don’t you
go off and play
Jim said
yes
said Pete
her other brother
go play with your dolls
go take a run and jump
she said
and still stood watching you
her eyes fixed on you
like wasps on a jam jar
I want to watch him ride
she said
and stood with her hands
on her hips
waiting until you stopped
the bike and got off
and wandered over to you
and said
I like the way you ride
like how you sway
and swerve on the bike
and you smiled at her
and took in
her short stature
her dark eyes
her determined expression
and as Pete rode off
on the bike
and Jim stood
on the fence
calling to him
Monica put her hand in yours
and said
wish you were my brother
I know you’d let me ride
the bike or car
and not tease me
or bawl me out
I guess I would
let you ride the bike or car
you said
and sensed
her small hand in yours
her thumb rubbing
against your skin
but seeing
as you’re not my brother
she whispered
maybe you could
marry me one day
and we could ride off
into the sunset
like they do in the movies
in Jim’s old car
yes sure maybe
you said
knowing inside
that’d be a bridge too far.
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 3:56 PM UTC
It's something in the chemicals, it makes the "miss you's" come out when you're drunk. Really, we're all liquor store kisses --- things you can't tell your parents. My drink is a little too strong, making my lungs feel like their filled with wasps. I'm a mess, is that what you call it? When someone says "don't cry" but you cry harder. Everyone's talking all they want around me, but I'm not listening. Lies, lies, lies. But, the lies are only good when you're telling them. I need help, aka a wedding for all the things I've lost in my eighteen year old life. The morning vomits evening colors from hearing your name. Like I'm vomiting-out all the broken promises you ever made to me. Your eyes reminded me of the prettiest diamonds, what did mine remind you of? Loose change? I need to do laundry, but I'm too lazy. I'm living in a wastebasket of flashbacks. I'm driving home tonight, alone, not sobber. I won't grip my steering wheel tightly, I won't wear my seatbelt, I won't use my breaks. I'll remember the amount-less number of drinks I've drank, slightly. But, they were no mistakes. I'm good at pretending my life is in order, but clearly it's not. This isn't who I want to be anymore, I hate the remembrance of you. I think getting drunk will help, but that only makes the remembrance worse, and I keep thinking about our first kisses --- and how they tasted --- how they drained the color out of every living thing --- how ladybugs decided to make their homes in the palms of our hands --- how it wasn't hard to forget that we have an unbearable amount of seconds left on this planet.
(k.m.m)
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC
The bright sun’s rays
Are dappled as they strike
The manicured greensward.
He, tall, lithe, teeth all aglow
In cream slacks and pastel blouson,
She, fair and fairylike in acres of shimmering gauze,
Alight from the auto
At the site of their ‘manger al fresco’
Let us call them Justin and Jocelyn.
The basket is heavy
No matter.
He lifts it clear to carry
She gasps, he grins.
In minutes the scene is set
The rug, the plates, the glasses
The pate, the cold chicken,
The fruit….the wine.
He deflowers a bottle of Moselle,
Wishing it were her.
Guessing as much she blushes.
Ants retreat to nests
Wasps attack alternate targets
Flies zoom elsewhere to feed.
And all the while the sun
The golden sun continues to dapple.
The rain is not quite horizontal
As Joe and Judy
Run from the bus stop
To the stony beach.
Not quite horizontal
But driven off the sea it tastes salty.
He, ordinary, average, in a dampening grey mackintosh.
She, hair bleached in a sister’s frock and jacket
Holding hands,
And hold each a sandwich
Cellophane wrapped.
Squatting against the seawall
They eat.
Wet eyes flash bright signals.
Joe has a small thermos
Its vegetable soup,
And somehow a hardboiled egg appears,
To share.
The rain continues its attack.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
I stood on the ledge of my sleepy blue sorrow
back from the edge, guess I'll see you tomorrow
can't lie, not the first time I'm thinking of you
but the night bugs are out, life's distractions will do
I looked to the west as the day slowly faydeedid
turned up the volume of cricket and katydid
rhythm rubs life in the darkness outside
steer clear of the blue light or get yourself fried
With the zapper you took out the skeeters and flies
while spiders and ants faced the raider's demise
yellow jackets and wasps, you chased from their hives,
but these night bugs are here for the rest of our lives
bittersweet bugs for the rest of our lives
Back in the house now, I roll down the screen
protecting myself from the lurking unseen
from the critters, which drawn by the lure of the light
make feast in their famine on food, flesh and fright
we handle the things that intrude in our spaces
the bugs in the dark and the unwanted faces
we roll down the screens and we listen to voices
those sweet summer sounds, and this night bug rejoices
With the zapper you took out the skeeters and flies
while spiders and ants faced the raider's demise
yellow jackets and wasps, you chased from their hives,
but these night bugs are here for the rest of our lives
too many months have passed without hearing
the music which blends with the night bugs I'm fearing
I nearly lost hope for those sounds in my life
but these night bugs revive good ol' summertime strife
bittersweet bugs, for the rest of my life
Stood on the ledge of my sleepy blue sorrow
back from the edge, guess I'll see you tomorrow
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
On an apple-ripe September morning
Through the mist-chill fields I went
With a pitch-fork on my shoulder
Less for use than for devilment.
The threshing mill was set-up, I knew,
In Cassidy's haggard last night,
And we owed them a day at the threshing
Since last year. O it was delight
To be paying bills of laughter
And chaffy gossip in kind
With work thrown in to ballast
The fantasy-soaring mind.
As I crossed the wooden bridge I wondered
As I looked into the drain
If ever a summer morning should find me
Shovelling up eels again.
And I thought of the wasps' nest in the bank
And how I got chased one day
Leaving the drag and the scraw-knife behind,
How I covered my face with hay.
The wet leaves of the cocksfoot
Polished my boots as I
Went round by the glistening bog-holes
Lost in unthinking joy.
I'll be carrying bags to-day, I mused,
The best job at the mill
With plenty of time to talk of our loves
As we wait for the bags to fill.
Maybe Mary might call round...
And then I came to the haggard gate,
And I knew as I entered that I had come
Through fields that were part of no earthly estate.
3.1k
Zombies are waddling toward their door.
Witches are cackling, black cats are scratching,
And the ghouls want brains and more.
But Brig and Ophelia aren’t scared yet,
They’re waiting inside,
Gobbling strange snacks while they hide.
It’s bugs they like to chew and gnaw;
And they love to eat their spiders raw,
Not fried with onions, like Granda;
Or served with broccoli, like Nana.
Not boiled with worms and creepy crawlers.
Ciaran eats those,
Not these crazed daughters.
Ophelia and Brig
Eat them raw,
Alive, not dead,
With wiggly legs and sharp jaws;
And wrapped up with mosquito heads
In white sticky spider webs.
They eat Black Widows soaked in goblin blood
And wicked witch’s poo;
Made from bats and rats and unschooled fools,
That witches eat to soften stools.
They eat fat spiders
Floating in soup,
That slide and wiggle
Down their throat.
They eat them with their mouldy cheese,
Melted over wasps and bees.
The girls fork down spider stew,
They love the taste “Tres beaucoup.”
The gravy’s made from a mummy’s spit,
And sweat that drips from a ghoul’s armpit.
They like their spiders spread on bread,
A feast to feed the risen dead.
When their snack is finally done,
They’ll pick their teeth and scrape their tongues
For Daddy Long Legs they didn’t eat.
The long legs caught between their teeth.
They'll use those legs to weave a wreath,
To trick flies and bugs and lonely spiders
Into their hungry House of Horrors.
Oct 30, 2023
Oct 30, 2023 at 11:06 AM UTC
I’m rather fond of chocolate cake
I’d like to learn to knit
But I can’t abide Celine Dione
And Celery is ****
I find a book most comforting
And the odd banana split
But I hate celebrity look-a-likes
And Canadian singers
And celery are ****
I’m happiest by the fireside
Some music, I’ll permit
But I grit my teeth at gossipers
And dead ringers
Canadian singers
And Celery are ****
I love the air about my hair
And the grass beneath my feet
But I've never been too keen on wasps
And **** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are ****
I’m partial to a cup of tea
With a biscuit next to it
But I’ll never vote conservative
And insect stingers
**** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are ****
I like to bake a birthday cake
Or build a Lego kit
There are many things I truly love
But Right wingers
Insect stingers
**** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are STILL ****
**
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 7:37 PM UTC
Late April and only
coltsfoot—Tussilago farfara—breaking leaf litter.
Our daffodils, peonies and crocuses
are also making signs.
April is the cruelest month, I forget why.
A sweet slow Spring
no sudden changes
each leg and leaf unfolds deliberately. You can't miss it.
New York City's spring rushes like a yellow cab
into summer. One day leaves are wet,
next they’re leather. I prefer this slow dance,
birds mating on the sky, peepers evolving into frogs.
Repairs take weeks or months. Septic,
garage door, cracked windshield, clean windows,
build bridge, buy land, rake leaves off erosion control,
cut wood, prune lilac, paint lawn chairs.
More carefully inspect, identify, the insect
of the week, a fly with an ant’s body
that skirts the grass and falls in drinks.
Look more closely! It will be gone in a few days!
Then it will be the time of moths or fireflies,
mosquitoes and wasps. Mud road,
red-winged blackbird. The slashing stream
topples old trees. My legs hurt.
May 23, 2022
May 23, 2022 at 6:17 AM UTC
my belly grows the size of a bag of apricots
there is a will at the bottom of a lake that needs retrieving
the car sank but the body made it to the shore and changed her name by midnight
come springtime the ice melts and the water is back
crawling upon shy ankles
there are growing pains who find a home between nettles and
the hives of adobe wasps
i never could cohabitate with nature
when they ask at parties where i've been
things that are at rest stay at rest
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 6:20 PM UTC
●☆●♡●☆●
I hold my breath when
you come to me
Or call me on the phone
Your non~questions rarely being
How are you Mom
But that you need money
You say it is for good things
Like food and clothes
Maybe it will be after...
When you begin to heal
I try and protect my fragile heart
Cause I don't know when
the war will break out that
will tear us again
Carefully packed bags
now ripped and strewn
across the foor
knick knacks fallen
with the slam of the door
On the phone for a moment
longer than you approved.
Punishment of your spite,
ugly names that came at me
like pellets and angry wasps,
while the woman
on the other line
told me it would all be OK
Assured me
over and over
A three minute call
that ended too soon.
Too long for You to wait.
Longer than the Morning
was patient, while you slept
as I lovingly packed your food.
▪●☆●▪
Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC